


Christmas for a real girl

by Grimmalie



Category: X-23 (Comic), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Grief, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 06:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmalie/pseuds/Grimmalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn’t mean to push him.  She just hadn’t expected him to pounce on her like that, a goofy smile on his face and a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas for a real girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [damalur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/gifts).



> ((Disclaimer: I am horribly behind in my Marvel mythology. All I have read of X-23 is her origin comic, Innocence Lost. So, for the purpose of this story, X-23 has recently taken up residence in the mansion with the others and, of course, doesn’t really feel she fits in there. Additionally, I do not refer to her within the narrative expressly as Laura or X-23 as, with the mindset I’m going for, she doesn’t refer to herself as either owing to the fact that she is more or less transitioning.  
> Written for Damalur. Hope you enjoy!  
> Also... for some reason this appears to have posted anonymously. It's not. I'm Grimmalie. ))

She didn’t mean to push him. She just hadn’t expected him to pounce on her like that, a goofy smile on his face and a sprig of mistletoe in his hand.  
Logan was about as drunk as he could get with his healing factor, which meant he’d downed as many cups of egg nog as he could and was enjoying his buzz, however brief, by indulging in a rare display of festive spirit. He’d already managed to catch Jubilee, Storm, and even a startled Nightcrawler under the mistletoe, which must have bolstered his courage enough to try it on X-23.

Nobody else would have dared, but Logan knew things other people didn’t know. He knew she had a heart. She knew she had a history. And on nights like this, when she felt like a bizarre lab experiment and didn’t understand the purpose of the tree or the garlands or the candlestick with seven candles, he called her Laura and tried to make her smile. She was willing to try. For him.

She sat in the corner of the room sipping wassail, listening to songs that everyone seemed to know the words to but her while an old black and white move about a half-deaf man played in the corner. She lifted her chin and sniffed experimentally at the air. There was cinnamon in it, released by the candles burning on the mantel and, whenever someone came in, there was the crisp scent of snow. She knew these smells separately but, for some reason, people had decided that they went well together this time of year. Just like red and green, blue and silver, silver and gold and white frosting over everything. Just like crude paper snowflakes taped to the windows and those ugly ‘stockings’ that were apparently hanging here and there for the purpose of catching treats. It didn’t make much sense. A bag would be more efficient.

She didn’t belong here. It felt like she was split in two, and the two halves fought within her. One, the sensible, well trained half, wanted to retreat to her room where she could practice her katas in peace. The other, the curious, wide eyed little girl that so seldom had opportunity to emerge, wanted to stay and learn, to understand these people. If she stayed, maybe she could feel like one of them. Or, at least, she could better learn how to defend herself against them when they decided that weapon X-23 really was more danger than they could handle.

She sat in the corner, sipping her wassail, waiting to see who the victor would be.  
And then Logan was there, and he smelled like egg and cream and sugar and cinnamon and alcohol, and his face was close to hers and he didn’t know about the battle already straining her limbs.

The world narrowed down into instinct. She acted without thought, lashing out to knock him back. His eyes widened momentarily before her hand connected with his throat, her boot with his chest, and he flew back. His head connected with the wall with a sickening ‘crack!’. Just like that, the room went silent.

She straightened and turned to address the still forms staring down at her. Weighing her. Judging her like a prize hound who had just run wild. Cyclops’s jaw was set, his face steely. Nightcrawler’s face was a mask of disappointment. The others ranged from outrage to utter shock.

“I want to see the world!” The half-deaf man on the television said.

“What child is this,” the radio said.

“Damn weapon,” someone in the back of the room hissed.

Her hands shook as she turned back to Logan. He was so still… the wassail she’d spilled on him stained his shirt red. So red. So still. Just like Dr. Kinney, all alone in the snow.

She lifted one pale, trembling hand to brush back a loose strand of her beautiful weapon’s hair and smiled in spite of the pain she had to be in.

“Laura,” she whispered as blood bubbled up her throat, seeping out the corner of her mouth. “Your name is Laura.”

“Laura,” Logan growled. He pushed himself up off the ground and shook his head.

She wasn’t… she didn’t…

She darted for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time. Distantly, she could hear Emma Frost remark coolly;

“Well, I’d hate to see when an actual boy tries to kiss her.” 

She raced up to her room and threw herself up on the bed… but it was still so wrong! It was too soft. There was too much color everywhere. On the bedspread, on the walls, in the happy curtains someone had hung on her windows. It was all wrong and it wasn’t right for her and it wasn’t what her life was supposed to be!

Her life was supposed to be like Pinnochio becoming a real boy at the end of the story to live happily ever after with Gepetto. She was going to run away with Dr. Kinney, where nobody could use her as a weapon. Because Dr. Kinney said that was bad. Dr. Kinney was going to help her to transform into a real girl, and they could live somewhere in peace as mother and daughter and nobody would ever hurt them ever again.

She buried her head in one of the big, overstuffed pillows and waited as the tension bubbled in her stomach, barreling up her throat before bursting out in a scream that tore her throat raw and made her ears ring. Her whole body went rigid with the force of it. Her toe-claws tore through the thin fabric of her socks, ripping into the bedding below. With a shink! Shink! Her hand claws did the same. Stuffing poured out of the tears in the pillows (too many, why did she have so many pillows? Why did she have so much of everything in this place?) like guts and settled down around her head.

She wasn’t a real girl. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Real girls belonged downstairs, watching movies and singing carols. Real girls didn’t push the closest thing they had to a father into the wall.

Real girls didn’t kill their mother.

“Oh, mon Cherie.”

She glanced up sharply. Gambit… no, Remy. He preferred to go by Remy. Remy leaned against the doorway, surveying her with those strange red and black eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace. She swallowed, uncertain whether to scream at him to leave or wait until he decided to do it on his own. Remy sighed and scratched the back of his hair before swaggering into her room to sit down on the bed at her feet.

“Heard you got yourself into a little tussle downstairs,” he remarked. “I think I can hazard a guess you’ve never encountered mistletoe before.”

She settled her head back onto the pillow, gazing at the loose stuffing now strewn across the covers.

“I know what it is,” she murmured. Slowly, her claws began to retract, leaving only a pair of healing, pink marks on either knuckle.

“Oui, but nobody’s ever tried their luck with you.” His lip twitched into a crooked sort of half smile. “You know he meant no harm by it.”

“I know,” she murmured.

Remy gave her that same sad little smile before rising.

“Come on. This close to Christmas? Alone in your room is no place to be, mon petit.”

“I’m not a child!” she objected.

“Ah.” Remy’s eyes sparkled. “I suppose you aren’t. Come on, then, mon Cherie.”

She watched him for a moment, waiting for him to change his mind, or for his eyes to flicker with some hint of deceit… but none of that occurred. He waited patiently, and she climbed out of her bed, shuffling after him out of the room.  
She expected him to lead her back to the living room, to apologize to Logan or endure a tongue-lashing from the others, but Remy led her along a different hall, opening into the kitchen. Bags of flour and little bottles of spices littered the counters and, right in the center of it all, sat a large mixing bowl with a goopy, brown concoction inside it.

Remy made a beeline for the bowl and gave it a sniff.

“Sure hope nobody touched this when I was gone,” he muttered, gesturing at the counter beside him. “Hop on up, Cherie. And turn on the radio there in the corner.”

She did as she was told, sweeping aside some of the stray trails of sugar and baking powder left from some other project before climbing up on the counter to sit. With one hand, she flipped on the radio.

“I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…”

Remy chuckled as he added a spoon of some dark spice to the mixture in the bowl.

“Let me tell you something. Every year, they singing that tune in New Orleans, and every year we just get a lot of swamp gas.”

She liked the way he talked. The way ‘New Orleans’ came out sounding like ‘N’Ohlins’ and vowels sounded like the most important things in the world. He mixed his whatever-it-was expertly, scarcely even looking down at what he was doing. Remy had probably spent his whole life doing things like this. Baking and listening to Christmas carols. Just like everyone else.

He glanced up at her with those strange, dark eyes that just seemed to know.  
“So, Cherie. Are you not a fan of the holidays?”

She shrugged.

“We never celebrated them where I…”

“Ah.” Remy nodded curtly and stopped stirring. “I suppose that makes sense. Buncha mad scientists, probably not too happy to celebrate silly things like Christmas and Hannukah and Kwanzaa and New Year’s.” He sniffed and drummed his fingers against the counter. “They surely were missing out.”

She swallowed. No. It wasn’t that they didn’t celebrate the holidays at all. It was just that her doctors and trainers and handlers all went home, or to their own private quarters at the end of the day. They celebrated holidays. They just didn’t celebrate them with her.

All except for one person. Just like Dr. Kinney always hid a copy of Pinnochio inside the Art of War to read when nobody was listening in, sometimes she found little ways to make days stand out. Once a year, every year, she found a little card tucked under her pillow. It wasn’t much. Just a folded piece of paper and Dr. Kinney’s smooth handwriting, declaring ‘Today, you are 7.’ ‘Today, you are 9.’ And so on. Every year. She had to dispose of them the next morning, of course, or hide them in her mouth if she didn’t have time. Likewise, once a year, she would find a little treat hidden under her pillow. It was always something disposable. Usually a piece of candy; peppermint or chocolate or coconut. Knowing what she did now, it was probably supposed to be a holiday present.

“Dr. Kinney and I were going to do this,” she murmured. They were going to run away and celebrate their lives together as mother and daughter. Maybe they would observe Christmas. Or Hannukah. Privately, she rather liked the strange, seven-tiered candelabra in the den. They could have lit it each night together, and read from the Torah. If they were Jewish. She couldn’t know for sure. 

Apparently you only got to celebrate that holiday if you were born that way… but maybe they could have broken the rules. The fact that they made it outside the facility was proof of how little rules meant to them.

Remy’s face fell.

“Oh Cherie.” He reached out slowly, giving her plenty of warning before taking her hand in his and squeezing it. She let him. His hands were always so warm, power buzzing just beneath them. He rubbed one calloused finger over her knuckles. “This ain’t about holidays at all, is it? It’s about your mother.”

She tensed, and something wound up tight in her chest. Her mother… she didn’t like thinking of Dr. Kinney as ‘mother’ like that. Not when she was around other people and it mattered that her eyes were starting to burn. Remy sighed.

“I know how it is, Cherie. You love someone, and you want to be with them forever. Then they’re gone. Do I ever know.” He reached up with one warm hand to brush away a tear she hadn’t even realized was forming in her eye. “I have loved twice over. And twice over they have been lost to me. But I do not weep for them, Cherie. For I was glad to have loved them. And this pain you feel? It’s a good kind of pain. It means you loved them so much, and it means it mattered, non?”

Love. Yes… she had loved Dr. Kinney. She’d loved her, and now she was gone. And it hurt so bad, she just wanted it to stop… but she still loved the woman who had born her and tried to teach her to be a real girl behind everybody’s backs.  
Shakily, she nodded. Remy gave her a sad little smile and squeezed her hand again.

“Tre bien, Cherie. Now come. I need some help with this gingerbread. Everybody’s all gathered in the den with their lazy bones, seems I’m the only one interested in keeping this house fed.”

She sucked in a breath and rubbed her eyes, willing the tears to stop as she crawled off the counter. Remy spread flour across the counter’s surface, then dumped the contents of the bowl onto it.

“This was always my favorite part of the holidays,” he told her. “My mutation means I’ve got warm hands, you see. So whenever I did the baking, it was always much better. Oh, you should try my crossoints one of these days.”

He rolled the dough out, then handed her a pair of cookie cutters, demonstrating how best to cut into the dough and pop it onto the greased pan waiting on the stove.

“Just like that, Cherie. When they’re done, we can make some of those lazy bones decorate them for us. Maybe tomorrow we can even make a whole gingerbread house. Got to get you all caught up on the traditions.”

Apparently Kurt was the person to ask if she wanted to hear the origin stories for Christmas and Hannukah. Kitty could teach her about decorations, and the professor was always happy to discuss the origins of things like the stockings or the Christmas tree. Hank, all though he didn’t really advertise it, knew every word to The Night Before Christmas, and could recite that or just about any carol she asked for at the drop of a hat. And, of course, Remy would be happy to show her more about holiday baking.

By the time the cookies were in the oven, her face was dry, if still warm. Remy gave her shoulder a little squeeze.

“You do have a family, Cherie,” he reminded her. “And they love you. Just let them.”

She thought about returning to the den with the others, but the thought still put a sour taste in her mouth. Maybe tomorrow, if they gathered again. But not tonight.

She climbed the stairs back up to her room and sighed. Her bed was still covered with stuffing. She would have to borrow a needle and thread from someone if she wanted to have anything to sleep on tonight. For now, though, she could at least put it back.

Slowly, she crammed the stuffing back into the mangled pillows one handful at a time. Outside, delighted cries rang out. Some of the others had decided that now was a good time to start one last snowball fight before bed. She abandoned the pillows and went to the window to gaze out at them. They looked so happy down there, unafraid of the damage the snow could cause. The freeze of traveling without a blanket, the agony of frostbite forming and healing over and over. 

She wasn’t the only one watching them. A familiar form perched on the roof, not far from her window, surveying the games below. She frowned and hurried out of her room, the half-stuffed pillows forgotten behind her.

“You knew I’d see you,” she announced as she crawled out on the roof. Logan grunted which, she had come to learn, was his way of saying ‘yes’.

She settled down next to him, wrapping her arms around her knees. Down in the snow, someone created a large patch of ice. Before the end of the night, one of them was going to slip on it, and the evening would end. They were enjoying it for now, though. That seemed to be what a lot of people did. Enjoy life for the moment.

Maybe that’s what Dr. Kinney was trying to do when she left those cards and candies.

“I know you didn’t mean anything by it,” Logan said. She shrugged. If anybody in this mansion understood that, it was him. All the same;

“I need to learn better control.”

“That’s why you’re here.” He sniffed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small package wrapped in blue and white snowflake paper. “Go on. I know it’s early. Figured you needed it.”

She took the package and looked it over. It looked like the others under the tree, but it had ‘Laura’ scribbled across it in marker. Logan stared at her intently until she started gently pulling at the paper. Little by little, it gave way to a rusty brown book. ‘Pinnochio’ was sprawled across the front cover in shining green letters, arced over the image of a little wooden boy.

She ran her fingers over the picture. Dr. Kinney’s voice murmured the familiar story in the back of her mind, taking her far away from her stark, white room for just a few minutes at a time. She sucked in a shuddering breath. It felt like somebody had shoved a knife in her chest… but it made her think of Dr. Kinney. On some level, it was good. 

“I know you liked it,” Logan said gruffly. “Thought you should have something to remember her by.”

Logan didn’t remember his mother. But he knew how she felt about hers. 

Slowly, she leaned forward, closing the distance between them inch by inch before pressing a gentle kiss to his whiskery cheek. She pulled back, and Logan smiled at her.

“Look at how I didn’t push you off the roof,” he snorted with a smirk. “I think you’re getting the hang of it. Wanna go back in?”

She shook her head. She hadn’t been able to breathe this well all night. The wind tugged at her hair. The cold gnawed at her bare skin. It smelled like snow and sweat and pine, and there was no music playing. But, deep down, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it was supposed to be.


End file.
